Lady Crymsy

by P. N. Elrod

  “Shivvey would notice. Might make him jumpy. You don’t want jumpy.”

  “Then someone’s gotta keep an eye on her. I can’t during the day.”

  “You,” he said, fixing me with a frown, “have done enough. There a phone in that hotel?”

  “Just left of the entry.”

  He grunted and heaved out. It was a minor mystery to me whether Gordy carried a book with all his phone numbers in it or if they were all in his head. The latter, I concluded, since he didn’t like anything on paper. I waited and watched the street signals change themselves until he returned some ten minutes later.

  “All set,” he said. “There’s a couple guys coming over to play baby-sitter. She won’t know about them. I got a ‘nother couple going over to his hotel just in case he turns up there. If he does, they scrag him and leave.”

  “Just like that?” Sometimes his cold-bloodedness got to me. I should have been used to it by now.

  “Just like that, but it won’t happen. He’s got what he wants from her. He’s pulled a hole in after him. Not much we can do until he comes up for air.”

  “I’d rather not kill him, Gordy.”

  “Then what?”

  “I just want to beat him until I get bored.” And let him live with the broken bones. Every time it rained he’d remember me.

  “We’ll see what happens. But if you find him first, I get the leftovers. I can’t have a disrespecter running loose. Bad for business.”

  Coker had used that last phrase himself when referring to Gordy getting involved in matters. Too bad for him he’d forgotten about it.

  Another determined-looking man in a dark suit approached my alcove and peered in. I vanished with time to spare. He went away, disappointed like others before him.

  Coker didn’t show for the service, but Gordy came, sitting well in the back. On the front row sat Tony Upshaw, resplendent in a perfectly tailored masterpiece of solemnity. Next to him was Rita Robillard, in a black dress dusted with matching sequins, the veil on her hat covering her face.

  Bobbi, also in black, but without the sequins, was seated in front next to the organist. She caught some signal from the funeral director and stood. A flashbulb went off, the photographer garnering disapproving looks from some. He was too busy changing bulbs to notice. The organist launched into “Rock of Ages,” and Bobbi rendered a moving solo of it. Halfway through, Rita pulled out a handkerchief. Upshaw put an arm around her. Neither of them seemed to be acting.

  The hymn finished, Bobbi resumed her seat, and a middle-aged minister with thinning blond hair approached the podium. He asked everyone to stand and say the Lord’s Prayer with him, then we all sat, and he delivered a eulogy about a woman he’d never met. It struck me—not for the first time, for I’d attended a few funerals over the years—how at best hard or at worst cynical it must be to say something nice about a complete stranger. A murdered stranger at that. This one made a game effort, taking a theme about universal tragedy and how any death diminishes us all. It seemed to work; Rita was audibly crying. The photographer burned up another flashbulb to get that image, kneeling right in front of her.

  Instead of a mere dirty look, he got something he couldn’t help but notice. Rita lashed out with a velvet purse the size of a satchel and smacked him right on the bean. He tipped backwards, landing square on his ass, holding his camera high to keep it safe. Didn’t work. Rita was out of her seat and caught the thing with the kind of kick that would have got her a first string spot at Notre Dame. There followed an expensive-sounding crash and clatter of breakage. The man recovered and came up cursing, but stopped short when he saw Upshaw and a couple other guys standing next to Rita glowering down at him. With a sick, pasted-on smile of apology, he backed off, palms out, and hastily gathered what was left of his equipment.

  “Goddamn vultures,” Rita snarled. In the shocked silence it carried throughout the room. This sparked a round of suppressed laughter, most of it from the photographer’s cronies.

  Somewhat wide of eye, the minister cleared his throat and everyone settled and resumed the face and form of proper mourning. The small army of reporters bent over their notepads, scribbling greedily. The sermon continued, we all recited Psalm 23, said amen, sang “Amazing Grace” with Bobbi leading, and that was the end of it. A general milling-around process began as some left to file stories and others walked up for a better look at Lena’s photograph.

  Bobbi got surrounded by a knot of men—nothing startling about that—but they were all reporters hoping for an interview. She managed to graciously ignore them and went over to Rita, who was now hanging on to Tony Upshaw’s arm, using him as a shield against her own assault. They exchanged quiet words, then Bobbi detached Rita and led her over toward the alcove. Reporters followed, but I was already out the door in the back. I waited until Bobbi and Rita came through, then shut it fast. A few diehards banged loud protest, calling questions, but I jammed my foot against the base, effectively holding them at bay.

  “You?” said Rita, looking at me with no small surprise. “I thought it was the funeral director wanting to talk to me.”

  “Jack just wanted to keep out the vultures,” said Bobbi. “I’ve got things to see to, so…” She whisked off down a long, plain hallway, her heels clacking on the brown tiles.

  Rita recovered fast enough. “What’s this about? Who’s she? And why are you—oh, never mind. I don’t give a damn anymore.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a fresh handkerchief, then soundly blew her nose.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” I said.

  “Yeah, me, too. It was a nice service even if she couldn’t be here to see. What are you doing here? Why you hiding out?”

  “She was found in my club, so it seemed the right thing to do, but I didn’t want a bunch of newsmen all over me again.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re telling me.”

  “If I’d known one of them was gonna try blinding you, I’d have had you seated in the family area.”

  “Don’t worry. I enjoyed kicking the hell outta that asshole. Just wish I’d hit him instead of the camera.”

  “Trust me, you hurt him more with that than you could ever imagine.”

  “So what is this? You fishing for another date or something?” She lifted her veil back over her hat.

  If I’d never met Bobbi, I’d have been sorely tempted. Rita looked good tonight. Better than last night. Despite the recent fracas, she seemed calmer somehow. For one thing, she hadn’t been drinking. Maybe some of the stuff I’d planted in her head was having a good effect on her.

  “I just have a couple more questions,” I said.

  This time she didn’t launch into an argument. She just nodded with her new calmness, and a moment later I captured her full attention. It seemed best to put her under. I didn’t know how long we had before Upshaw might come looking for her, and wanted to hurry things. I also didn’t care to explain to her conscious mind how I’d acquired certain pieces of information.

  “Does Shivvey know about that little records book you have hidden in the radio?” I asked.

  “Sure he does,” she said, without any hesitation. “I showed it to him when I found it in Lena’s things.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I didn’t know what it was at first. We figured it out, though.”

  “Did he tell you to continue making entries?”

  “Yeah. Said it’d be good insurance.”

  “Insurance? Against Booth Nevis?”

  “Yeah. If he should decide he didn’t need me working anymore, then I could use it to make him change his mind. That’s what Shivvey said we could do with it.”

  “Very neat. You get to boss Nevis around, and Shivvey doesn’t even come into the picture.”

  “I never bossed nobody. Don’t have to.”

  Not yet, anyway. Shivvey could call the shots through Rita, and she’d be the one to take the fall if Nevis objected. If Nevis played along, then doubtless Shivvey would get
a generous cut of whatever Rita got. That had changed, though. With Nevis in the clink, Shivvey could give the book to the cops and keep him there. “What about those extra numbers that Lena had in one of the columns? All those twenties and fifties?”

  Rita, her eyes not focused on much of anything, shook her head. “I donno.”

  “What about Shivvey? Did he think she was skimming cash?”

  “Skimming?”

  “Did Shivvey ever ask you to look for money? For Lena’s money?”

  “Yeah… I looked. Shivvey helped me. Din’ find squat.”

  And both of them had missed the treasure trove in the bookcase. But back then the glue on the end papers had been fresh, and Lena had been very, very careful about concealing her work. Five years of drying had made a world of difference.

  “Do you think Nevis found out Lena was stealing from him?”

  “Stealing?”

  “Suppose Nevis caught her stealing and decided to punish her.”

  Rita didn’t like that idea. She began to blink and shake her head, a sleeper trying to wake herself. “No, he loved her. He loved Lena.”

  My idea for a motive did seem thin and extreme, but if Nevis was in love, then thought himself betrayed, emotions would win out over common sense. I’d seen worse things happen for less. Hell, the night before I’d barely survived such an extreme.

  Awareness came back to her eyes, rather quickly. Awareness and agitation. “What were you saying? You think Booth woulda—no. Oh, no.”

  “Rita, you have to listen…”

  She pushed away a few steps, and put her back to me. “No, he’d—no, you don’t know anything.”

  I followed. “Rita, look at me and listen a minute.”

  She made a small moan of frustration and began to turn. Then the alcove door opened, and Tony Upshaw came through. He gave us each a look, his gaze settling on Rita.

  “You okay, doll?”

  She snuffled into her handkerchief. “I wanna go home.”

  “Sure thing. He bothering you?”

  “No, let’s just get outta here.”

  He gave me another look, one that conveyed his certainty that I was the cause of her distress, and sauntered past to take her arm. He managed to just brush me on the return. It was meant as a challenge. I chose not to take it. Rita had told me all I really needed for the time being. No telling how much she would recall of my questioning, and no way to make sure of it now.

  “Rita,” I said before they made the door. They paused; she glanced back. “Stay clear of Nevis and Shivvey. It’s important.”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “Things are happening. You don’t want to be in the middle of them.”

  Upshaw frowned at me, very aware of what I wasn’t saying. How much did he know?

  “You got that?” I said.

  “Yeah, sure I got that,” she mumbled in a thick voice. Upshaw guided her out, beating a path through the still-present reporters.

  I took Bobbi’s hall route toward the front and found her standing in the entry next to Gordy. His massive presence was enough to prevent further interview attempts.

  “How did it look to you?” she asked, referring to the service. She had her hat on and purse in hand, ready to leave.

  “Just great. You sang like an angel.”

  “But that camera guy—”

  “Just a bit of color, don’t worry about it. The rest was very tasteful.”

  She gave a huge sigh of relief.

  “Still think you needed a couple hundred chrysanthemums, big orange and brown ones,” said Gordy.

  She gave him a narrow look, lips pursed tight together.

  “Okay, white then, but really big, the size of bowling balls.”

  She started to respond, then shook her head, giving up. She motioned at the hall I’d just emerged from. “How’d it go with that gal?”

  “Well enough. I heard pretty much what I expected. Thanks for helping.”

  “Fine, you can tell me all about it later. I’ve got to get back to my job.” She bestowed a quick peck on my cheek, then seemed to tow Gordy out. No mean feat considering his size. He raised one hand to indicate he was in a situation beyond his control, and away they went.

  A plainclothes cop noted down their departure. He was obvious enough that he might as well have worn a uniform. He made more notes as others filed by. He already had my name. I had a mind to ask after Lieutenant Blair, but a tall, thin mourner in dark glasses and hat tilted low pushed his way through the press, in a hurry to get out.

  There was no mistaking that angular jaw, hollow cheeks, and consumptive-looking frame.

  I shot after him, a dog chasing a fresh bone. He was moving fast on those long legs, heading for his car. I caught up with him just as he started to get in.

  Booth Nevis halted in mid-motion and stared at me over the car door. I assumed it was a stare; he kept the glasses on. “What are you doing here?” he wanted to know.

  “Paying my respects, same as you.”

  He nodded once. “Well, all right then.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Not now.”

  “We need to talk about Shivvey’s next move.”

  He tilted his head slightly, considering. There was no telling how much he knew about what was going on, but he must have had some clue since he didn’t ask for clarification. “Get in.”

  I got in. “Let’s go to Lady Crymsyn. I heard your place was—”

  “Yeah, I heard, too.”

  He took the specs off for the drive, replacing them once he’d parked in front of my club. I unlocked and ushered him in, this time accepting without annoyance that the bar light would be on.

  In the wee hours last night I’d returned and cleaned everything. The odd stain originally confined to one tile had flooded to the grout with my additional contribution. No amount of scrubbing would remove it, but at least all other trace of my blood was gone. Only the soapy smell of the cleaner I’d used remained. The broken shelves I’d wrapped in newspaper and packed into the back alley trash cans, well out of sight and speculation. The work sheet on Malone’s clipboard had a note instructing him to buy replacements. I gave no explanation on the fate of the originals.

  “You believe in ghosts?” I asked Nevis.

  “Huh?”

  “Forget it. This way.”

  “Just a minute. Show me.”

  “Show you what?”

  “Where she was.”

  Not knowing what to say to that, I kept shut. No spook’s hand flicked the light toggles; I did it myself and made a follow-me gesture, taking Nevis through to the main room. He’d not been in the place that I knew of since I signed the lease, but was apparently in no frame of mind to admire the new scenery. He trudged along like a man going to the scaffold.

  We went down to the basement. The cement mixer had apparently not arrived today; most of the floor toward the back was in the same rough state as when the men had been tearing down the brick dividers. I led him to the nook, which was quite gone. Scars in old cement and mortar showed where the false wall had been built up, but all else had been swept clean.

  “Where?” he asked.

  I pointed, glad the cops had taken away the eyebolt that had anchored Lena’s bonds.

  Nevis put his hands in his pockets and brooded a while in the harsh glare of the unshielded bulbs. He then gave the rest of the shadows a look-see, walking over to the yet unfilled-in trench at the foot of the far wall before turning heel.

  “Okay, that’s enough.” There was no expression on what I could see of his face. The sunglasses hid what was important.

  We went up to my office.

  The window blinds were taken down, leaving yawning black holes punched into the stark white walls. I’d have to get some pictures or something in to ease the monotony.

  Leon’s crew—according to the report he’d left on the clipboard next to Malone’s report—were still waiting for a portable cement mixer. Among other chores, t
hey’d occupied their time today by painting my office, and the air was hardly breathable. Even if I didn’t need it, Nevis was addicted to the stuff, so I opened things wide to let out the fumes. Besides, the dark background turned the glass panes into mirrors, with myself quite absent from their view. No need to complicate things.

  The street below hosted only an occasional passing car. I expected Gordy to be coming by after he’d dropped off Bobbi, which wouldn’t take long.

  “What about Shivvey?” asked Nevis, settling into the spare chair. He didn’t look like the cautious man on guard as he’d been the last time I’d seen him. His bony shoulders drooped, his hands hung loose over the chair arms. His posture was not so much tired as don’t-give-a-damn exhaustion.

  “When did the cops get done with you?”

  He took his time answering. “Couple hours ago. And they’re not done with me yet. They were all over that place.”

  “I saw them. They’d have been there anyway.” Headlights turned onto the road half a block down. A green Ford. It parked in a dark patch between the streetlights. Right in front of a hydrant. Because of the distance I only just discerned the driver’s general outline, but no details. Couldn’t tell if he had company in the back or not. I stepped away from the window and told Nevis. “Think it’s Shivvey?”

  He gave a resigned snort. “Not his car. That’s a cop keeping tabs on me. Why don’t they just hang out neon signs?”

  “Same reason why they ran you into a door. They want you off-balance so you spill for them.”

  One corner of his mouth curled, and he ruefully took off the glasses, folding them into the breast pocket of his coat. He had a spectacular shiner framing his left eye, not unlike Malone’s.

  “I spilled,” he said, “but we had a problem. I wasn’t giving them what they wanted to hear.”

  “As in confessing to Lena Ashley’s murder?”

  He nodded, flapping one long hand dismissively. “I’m here to talk about Shivvey.”

  “You heard from him today?”

  “No, and I should have. Rita told me about the funeral and said she hadn’t seen him since last night. Shivvey’s up to something. I can see that now, or he’d have been by to spring me yesterday. I don’t know how far he’ll go, though. Maybe he wants a bigger piece of pie, maybe he wants the whole bakery. Until I learn different, I’ll figure he’s going for the bakery.”